The Highland Girl's Lament.

The ancient Highlanders believed the spirits of their departed friends continually present, and that their imagined appearances and voices communicated warnings of approaching death.

Oh! set the bridal feast aside,

And bear the harp away;

The coronach must sound instead,

From solemn kirk-yard gray.

I heard last eve, at set of sun,

The death-bell on the gale.

It was no earthly melody:--

The eglantine grew pale;

And leaf and blossom seemed to thrill

With an unuttered prayer,

As, fraught with desolateness wild,

The strange notes stirred the air.

And on the rugged mountain height,

Where snow and sunbeam meet,

That never yet in storm or shine

Was trod by human feet,

A weird and spectral presence came

Between me and the light;

The waving of a shadowy hand

That faded into night.

I felt it was the first who left

Our little household band,--

The child, with waving locks of gold,

Now in the silent land.

And when the mist at morn arose

From Katrine's silvery wave,

A form of aspect ominous,

With pensive look and grave,

Moved from the waters towards the glen

Where stands the holly-tree;

'T was the brother who is sleeping low

Beneath the stormy sea.

And while to-night the curfew bell

Rang out with solemn chime,

As soundeth o'er the buried year,

The organ peal of time,

And, near the fragrant jessamine,

I mused in garden glade,

A phantom form appeared to me

Beneath the hawthorn shade.

The dews had wept their silent tears,

The moon was up on high,

And every star was sphered with calm,

Like an archangel's eye;

And melancholy music swept

With cadence low and sweet,

Such as ascends when spirit-wings

Around a death-bed meet.

O was it not a mother's heart

That gave that warning sign;

The loving heart that used to thrill

To every grief of mine?

I oft have deemed, in sunny hours,

When life with love was fraught,

The nearness of the dead to us

A fantasy of thought.

But, standing on the barrier

I used to view with pain,

I feel the chains of severed love

Are linking close again.

Another hand must smooth and bless

My father's silver hair;

Another voice must read to him

At morn and evening prayer.

The flowers that I have trained will bloom,

But at another's side;

And he I love will seek perchance,

A gentler, fairer bride.

And soon another shade will haunt

The echo and the gloom,

With pining heart of restless love,

And omens of the tomb.

Then set the festal board aside,

And bear the harp away;

The coronach must sound instead

From solemn kirk-yard gray.